Active Shooter
by Cardinal Robbins
Summary: <html><head></head>SVU AU Detective John Munch is hunting Detective Sarah Zelman, and vice versa, on direct orders from Captain Cragen. Both have just one bullet chambered to use against the other, but who will fire first. Why does Don have two of his detectives pitted against each other in the darkness? Has he gone crazy? Or have they?</html>


**Active Shooter**

by Cardinal Robbins

(c) 2014

_**Munch and Cragen belong to Wolf, but Sarah is mine. This **_

_**was a little warm-up exercise and I thought you might enjoy it.**_

O0O

Sarah Zelman couldn't hear herself breathe and that was good, very good. It meant no one else could hear her breathing either.

She had racked the slide of her Glock 35 while inside a dark, empty structure she had thoroughly searched with nothing brighter than an adjustable penlight. She'd turned it to its weakest setting, held her left index finger over the lens to block the illumination entirely, moving her finger only when she had to have a tiny glimmer of light. She was hunting.

Her prey was NYPD, specifically Manhattan SVU's Detective Sergeant John Munch.

She was being hunted as well.

The tall, thin detective had one chambered up in his police-issue G-34, a single shot he was determined to use to take Zelman down. At that moment, moving deliberately in the shadows of a back alley, he didn't even care if it hurt when he shot her. And he would shoot her first, as he'd been ordered by his Captain. This time, he didn't give a damn, he simply wanted to be out of the chill that turned his warm breath into telltale steam. He mentally winced every time his shoes inadvertently crunched an autumn leaf or snapped a brittle twig.

He knew she was out there. The urge to find her before she discovered him was gnawing; he could feel the need to strike first crawling under his skin.

John stopped for a moment, crouching down to stay out of the light. Like a lithe jungle cat, he sniffed the air. It was a trick he'd learned from Sarah, her FBI codename "Tigress" following her into the NYPD. A wry smile played at the corners of his mouth. He was enjoying this. She was too good, too careful to wear any type of perfume, scented deodorant, shampoo...even laundry soap. There was no trace of her usual floral scent.

Zelman wished she had her compact pair of night-vision goggles, but Cragen had vetoed that wishful thinking almost before she'd asked. No Black Ops advantages for either hunter, nothing to protect them either – no Kevlar, no backup weapon. To keep this little Theatre of the Absurd equal, they both had to wear their dress blues but without their shields, rank insignias, commendation awards or accumulated 'fruit salad.' They both knew to wear a V-neck undershirt beneath their uni blues, unlike Benson whose bright white crew-neck always gave away an uneven triangle of contrast against her dress uniform. Too visible. Both experienced detectives knew better. They could easily hide in plain sight.

Tonight, they were counting on that very skill.

Munch silently got to his feet, reminding himself he had impeccable skills as a tracker. However, he couldn't count on besting her, since they had taught each other well. He moved like a feline, yet felt more like a bloodhound in times like this when he was sure of his circumstances. God, how he loved the thrill of the chase! This was certainly no exception.

Zelman was crouched now, walking along the top of a concrete block wall as she watched for any trace of her quarry. Ducking between overhanging tree branches, she took her time. Suddenly, the briefest hint of shadow across the alley threw on a motion-detector light, leaving John Munch in full view.

"NYPD! Let me see your hands, now!" She drew her weapon almost faster than the eye could see, drilled well every other weekend by her partner. She fired, hearing him yell something decidedly profane. She was surprised by his return fire as her right leg collapsed beneath her.

John heard her fall from the wall on to a closed dumpster, a frickative loudly escaping her lips.

Donald Cragen stepped out of the shadows, slightly rumpled in his khaki colored trench coat. "Time called! Nice shooting, both of your weapons went off at the same time. Any casualties?" He had a slight smile on his timeworn features, not entirely surprised his best detective pair thought alike and had the same draw and fire timing.

"Nothing permanent that I'm aware of," Munch replied, rubbing his upper arm where the rubber bullet had hit him. "When was the last time you were hit by one of these?"

"It's been a while and it's going to stay that way," Cragen replied. "Zelman, you okay?" He walked over to the dumpster, where she was flexing her leg. "Need help climbing down?" Don extended his hand, but she grinned and waved him off.

"I'm good. My partner got off a lucky shot, that's all." She climbed down, knowing a technicolor bruise was in her future. Probably in John's too, she thought.

"Lucky? You dare call my expert marksmanship 'lucky'?" Munch spread his arms wide before placing his hands on his hips. "I took you down first, I'll have you know."

"You did _not_ – and you know it!" She knew they'd fired simultaneously, but damned if she was going to let him get the best of her. "I had you by a split-second. Cap will back me up, won't you, Cap?"

Cragen chuckled, his rare sound of genuine amusement delighting both detectives. "I'm not getting into the middle of you two, you know that." He keyed his hand-held radio and ordered the lights on. Over 35 carefully-placed street lamps illuminated the NYPD's active shooter range, over two acres of buildings, walls, homes, garages and outbuildings. It was the Chief's pride and joy, a place where almost any police scenario could be simulated among the various urban landscapes. "Come on, you two... It's time to head home. Go tend to your bruises and come in two hours late tomorrow."

"I take it we passed?" John asked, curious. It would be at least 48 hours before the official results were posted for the squad to see.

"The two of you edged out Benson and Stabler by five points," Don admitted. "But don't brag, it only chaps Elliot's ass more than usual." He carefully clapped John on the shoulder, accepting a high-five from Sarah. "Do me a favor?"

"Sure...anything." Zelman agreed quickly, her team spirit fueled by the urge to go home and step into a hot shower.

"Both of you bring Fin here and drill him until he drops." Cragen spread his arms wide as he shook his head. "He's in last place and I don't think he wants to stay there. Agreed?"

"Agreed." John stopped short, turning again to Don. "What happens if he doesn't want our help?"

"Then I'll make it an order." He smiled, seemingly looking forward to the probability. "Now go – and both of you, good work tonight."

John and Sarah murmured their thanks, trying not to walk too close to each other as they headed for the parking lot, eager to get home, assess their damages and fall into bed exhausted.

"You know I fired first," John insisted. "How could you possibly believe otherwise?"

"'First'? You must have hit your head on something hard, because I pulled off the shot a nanosecond before your finger squeezed the trigger." She wasn't about to give in, even if he could be right.

"Agree to disagree?" John's grin gave him away.

"Only if you let me have most of the hot water when we get home." She hoped the rubber slug hadn't hurt him too much, all things considered.

"We'll have to find a way to compromise on that, I think." He secretly wondered how long it would take before she asked for an ice pack. She kept up with his long strides, but with a slight limp.

"We can manage that." She tossed him the keys to her Saturn. "It'll be good to get home."

"You have a penchant for understatement." They looked at each other and laughed.

Sometimes, despite being police, it didn't really matter _who_ shot first.

**# # #**


End file.
